


Lullaby for a Witcher

by orphan_account



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure & Romance, M/M, References to previous 'Perils and Poetry' works, Short Stories, Some Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:01:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22425232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Combination of short stories around the theme of music and poetry, with some plot threading through.Chapter 1-2: Jaskier gets a Scoia'tael arrow in the shoulder, and Geralt has to supervise his R&R.Chapter 3-4: Jaskier catches Geralt enjoying one of his more powerful songs and decides to take him to the opera.Chapter 5-8: Jaskier and Geralt are invited to Skellige for a King's Moot.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 41
Kudos: 307





	1. Chapter 1

“And then, you never guess what she said, she said it was _my fault_ that her marriage had fallen through. _My fault._ Can you believe it, Geralt? She had been dropped by her fiance like a sack of rotten potatoes, but it was all _my_ fault.”

“Mmmhm.”

“She was the one who sought out _me_.I was offering a shoulder to cry on, friendly neighbourhood bard. It was _she_ who began to pursue more intimate relations. As if I, Jaskier, would ever tempt someone way from their political obligations.”

Jaskier had been talking for about two hours solid now. Geralt had been keeping count using the sun as his clock. It didn’t bother him as much as it used to, and he knew Jaskier sometimes just needed to… _talk_. It was as integral to his health as breathing and eating. Most of the time it was complete nonsense from his past life, and didn’t require much more than the odd grunt from Geralt. Their real conversations happened after nightfall around the campfire. Wrapped in a cloak and leaning against Geralt’s side, Jaskier was more settled and wanted to discuss the profound; monsters, justice, magic… their shared world.

They had been following the Ismena river for several days, with a view of stopping in White Orchard to meet up with Eskel for a drink and a game of cards. There had been scant few contracts on the way, but autumn was drawing in and Geralt knew that darker nights brought darker monsters. The work would pick up quite quickly when the leaves began to turn.

He didn’t realise they had walked into a trap until it was too late. _Stupid._ The hair on the back of his neck stood on end seconds before the arrow whistled from the treeline. Jaskier’s scream of pain told Geralt all he needed to know about where it had landed, and Roach reared from his hand as the bard fell against her. 

The Witcher yanked the steel sword from his back to deflect the next arrow sent in their direction; the third lodged itself in his left epaulette, but he snapped it off in dismissal as it failed to breach through the thick leather. Three Scoia’tael sprinted from their hiding places behind tall beech trees with longswords drawn and a loud, chirping battle cry. He felled the first by flinging his hunting blade into her throat, while the second he disarmed with a powerful counter that shattered through his weapon and cut deep into his chest.

The third pounced forward but was met with a telekinetic blast when Geralt cast Aard. As the elf scrambled to recover, the steel sword descended through his chest from above, pinning him to the ground as he thrashed and gurgled. The Witcher left him there and skidded to his knees next to Jaskier. His heart thundered in his own chest to a beat that sounded alarmingly like fear, but some of it dissipated when he realised Jaskier was still alive.

The bard was shaking uncontrollably, and flinched when Geralt pulled him from the floor and rested his back against an upraised knee. “Geralt, it hurts… it hurts _so much._ ” The arrow had lodged itself in Jaskier’s shoulder; too high to have hit his heart or lungs, by the grace of whatever deity had been keeping watch, but painful nonetheless. 

“Get it out, please. Geralt… fuck, it _hurts._ What… _ow, fuck_ . Don’t… are you drinking my blood?” The Witcher touched the wound lightly and Jaskier yelped; his eyes widened when Geralt put those same fingers to his lips, before spitting to his left. _No poison._

Geralt wiped the hair from Jaskier’s eyes and forehead. “We can’t stay here. The rest of the band won’t be far behind their three scouts. I need you to stand. Get on Roach.”

“N-no… it hurts too much, please, Geralt. Pull it out!”

“ _Jaskier_ , look at me,” Geralt took the bard’s chin and made him look up. “I will, but not here. You would bleed out. Up.” The bard whimpered in protest as the Witcher hauled him to his feet, but he was able to use his working arm to help pull himself into Roach’s saddle. Geralt retreated briefly to snatch his sword from where it still impaled the third elf, before hopping up behind him.

Every step the horse took sent sparks of agony through Jaskier’s torso, and he gritted his teeth to try and stem the sobs that wracked from deep in his chest. He didn’t think Geralt was ever going to stop; they crossed through a ford three times at different locations - covering their tracks, Jaskier would realise later - but Roach’s uneven tread across slippery rocks felt like a special kind of torture. 

The river continued to flow to their right, and they couldn’t have been far from White Orchard when Geralt pulled Roach into a small clearing. The Witcher left Jaskier in Roach’s saddle as he gathered together the items he needed; dry twigs and leaves to light a fire with a soft ‘igni’, fresh water from the river, and his suture kit along with a bottle of dwarven spirit from one of Roach’s saddlebags.

Jaskier cried out when Geralt pulled him to the ground, stuttering and panting in pain every time he had to move his torso. It eased slightly as he sat perfectly still by the fire, measuring each breath. “How… how bad is it? Geralt, _Geralt…_ am I going to lose my arm? I ca--”

“Sshh, stop, you’re panicking. Be still,” Geralt examined the wound site closely. As expected, the head of the arrow was barbed and had he pulled it out on the path as requested, Jaskier probably _would_ have lost the use of his arm from the nerve damage alone. “Jaskier, I need to push it through. I can’t pull it out the way it went in.”

“ _Push-it-through-are-you-serious-no,_ ” he tried to move away from Geralt, but the Witcher had an iron grip on his working arm. “It… will it hurt? Don’t lie to me.”

“I never lie to you. It will hurt, but I will make it better.”

“O-ok, I… I trust you, _please_ just--”

The yell that Jaskier let out when Geralt pushed the arrowhead through to the back of his shoulder sent birds scattering from the canopy. The snap of the wooden arrow shaft made Jaskier feel sick, and he stared down at the barbed arrowhead Geralt cast to the floor with a mixture of disgust and awe. He hissed through his teeth when his shirt was pulled over his head, and two slivers of blood soaked material dug out of his shoulder. When Geralt uncorked the dwarven spirit and poured it over, Jaskier snatched it from his hand - “Give me that” - and took several huge mouthfuls as tears streamed freely from the corners of his eyes. He would not face this ordeal completely sober. 

Once Geralt had heated the sewing needle in the flame, he sat down behind his bard and set to work closing the wound. It was as he was about to make the first stitch that he realised his hands were shaking. _What?_ The Witcher’s brow furrowed and he glared at his treacherous fingers until they stilled. _Why was he such a wreck when it came to Jaskier?_ He ground his teeth and inhaled deeply through his nose to force that unhelpful flutter of anxiety far, _far_ down into his chest.

When he was finished, Jaskier had stopped quivering, and his tears had simmered down into the odd desolate sniffle. “What… what are you doing?” 

The bard watched Geralt pick up his bloodied shirt and examine the hole in the shoulder, matching up small pieces of cotton congealed in blood. “Making sure I got it all. I don’t want you to get an infection.”

“Right.” Jaskier folded his knees to his chest, tucking his face against them as his lower lip threatened more tears. Now that the adrenalin was subsiding and it was becoming apparent he would probably live, it was the embarrassment and shame that bubbled to the surface. He had seen Geralt get chewed on, slashed at, stabbed, burned, dropped, kicked, shot with arrows… and he couldn’t even take a single arrow to the shoulder without breaking down into a sobbing mess and having Geralt _rescue_ him.

It was as if his Witcher sensed his descent into despair, because it wasn’t long before that familiar warmth enfolded him from behind. Geralt’s legs flanked his, and his broad palms pulled insistently at Jaskier’s waist. “Jaskier… stop it.”

“What?”

“Berating yourself.”

“Oh my--... are you a mind reader now? Is this some Witcher-y sense you have failed to mention?”

“Mm, no, but you read like a book.” Warm lips pressed to the back of Jaskier’s shoulder, light against the bruises that were already blossoming underneath the freshly stitched wound. The mixture of pleasure and pain it caused forced Jaskier to sit up straight, and allowed Geralt to wrap his arms tighter.

“I… I’m such a useless coward. I… can’t even… it was just a little arrow, and...”

Geralt growled. “No. Stop. _Now._ ” 

“But Geralt, I--... you’re so--.. you don’t fear _anything..._ ”

“You have followed me into every dark cave, every cesspit, every haunted house. You rode across the entirety of the northern kingdoms in pursuit of the Eternal Fire when you could have left me to rot. These are not the actions of a coward,” he would not allow Jaskier to curl in on himself. “I have been mutated to numb fear and pain. You have not, and yet you still follow me into the abyss. I can think of no braver man.”

The fire crackled and Jaskier relaxed into Geralt’s embrace. His entire back felt sore and he was overcome with the desire to both flex and stay rigidly still to avoid the pain; he had to settle for tentatively leaning back against Geralt’s chest and draping his arms over the thighs either side of him. “There is an obvious up side to this whole affair.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, _Toss a Coin to your Witcher_ just got a new verse…” Geralt groaned in mock pain against Jaskier’s back, and the bard chuckled, only to hiss as it disturbed his shoulder. “How… how long will this take to heal, Geralt? I can’t even… how am I going to play?”

“A couple of weeks. You must give it the time it needs. I will take you to an herbalist I know just outside White Orchard. She will be able to give you something for the pain, and check the sutures in a few days..”

“Ahh, yes, I suppose if I were to drink some Swallow right now, my head would explode…”

“Mmhm.”

“ _Wait…_ you are not leaving me in White Orchard.”

“ _Jaskier…”_

“No. No. I refuse.” He tried to wriggle free of Geralt’s grasp, but the Witcher had him held securely against his chest. His legs tightened either side to keep the bard still, and prevent him breaking open the fresh stitches, but that didn’t stop Jaskier from trying. The thought of being left behind was clearly more painful than the wound itself. “You’re… you’re _ditching_ me. I can’t… dropping me like a… a common--”

“You can’t travel with an injury.”

“ _You_ do it all the time.”

“Witcher… I’m a Witcher, Jaskier. Stop squirming.”

“I can’t believe this. Fine… _fine._ Abandon me, Geralt of Rivia. _Use_ me and cast me aside.”

“You’re being melodramatic. I will pick you up in a week.”

“And what will I do for a _week_ in _White Orchard?”_

“Rest. Heal. Be safe.”

“ _No._ You’ll have to tie me to a bed. I’ll follow you, I’ll-- _”_

Geralt growled in exasperation, his mouth pressed to the back of Jaskier’s unwounded shoulder. _What had he done to deserve this stubborn jackass?_ He continued to hold Jaskier tightly until he gave up trying to wriggle free. “Fine. I will stay with you.”

“You’ll… stay?”

“Yes.”

“In boring old White Orchard… with me? In the tavern? With a bed?” 

“ _Yes._ ”

Jaskier grinned triumphantly. “Excellent. I should get shot in the shoulder more often.”

“No. Please don’t.”

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

“No lice, clean sheets, clean floors… Geralt, this a veritable paradise. _And_ they only gave you a dirty look rather than an insult as you walked in. What a treat.” Jaskier sat himself down slowly on the edge of the bed; the Witcher had carried his bag and lute upstairs for him and now rested them under the window. There was no reply. Jaskier folded his legs underneath him and watched as Geralt disappeared through the door into the hallway to retrieve his own belongings from Roach’s back. They had visited the herbalist who had been happy with Geralt’s needlework, but provided some clean bandages and one hell of a pain-killer for a small fee.

But… there was something wrong. Jaskier could sense it. To most, Geralt was a closed book; his default expressions were irritation and brooding, with a side of sarcasm if someone _really_ got under his skin. But Jaskier knew him far better now. He could see the smile behind his amber eyes when he was amused; the anger when they encountered injustice and _feel_ shifts in temperament even if Geralt did his best to hide them. _No_. Something was amiss.

The feeling of ‘wrongness’ only worsened as they awaited Eskel’s arrival. Geralt was always sat by the fire sorting through ingredients, or chiseling away with his spare knife when Jaskier fell asleep every evening, and he was already outside running errands when Jaskier woke every morning. The bard cooed at him, talked _at_ him, but didn’t demand any attention beyond what Geralt was willing to give freely, which often amounted to a single syllable, but that battle could wait until Jaskier could fathom the scope of this black cloud that followed his Witcher around. 

The bard had never been happier to see Eskel’s scarred visage appear in a darkened doorway. They occupied a table as far from the general population as possible. As he sat down, Eskel pulled a familiar blade from the side of his belt, and placed it down before Geralt. “I believe this is yours. I pulled it out of Scoia’tael’s neck - pretty little thing - can only imagine what she did to piss you off.”

“She took a pot-shot at me from the bushes, and ended up hitting Jaskier.”

“Ah,” Eskel shrugged his cloak off and rummaged around in his bag for his gwent deck. “I’m amazed she got close enough…”

Geralt didn’t answer. Eskel paused and sat back in his chair, cards in hand. He considered Geralt to be the closest thing he had to a genuine brother, and he _knew_ when something was amiss. It was in his scent, the way he carried himself, and the distracted, vacant way he gazed into space. Jaskier couldn’t read Eskel, not like he was learning to read Geralt, and stifled his question with a long drink of beer. In the end, Eskel shuffled his deck. “Your draw.”

They played a handful of rounds and Jaskier was happy to sit and listen to Eskel’s stories. The Witcher was the same age as Geralt - they had trained together - and the easy, quiet way they enjoyed each other’s company spoke of a friendship still going strong. As the night drew on though and the beer blurred the edges of his vision, numbing the pain in his shoulder quite pleasantly, Jaskier bid both farewell and stumbled upstairs…

* * *

Eskel watched the bard go, threw his cards down and grabbed his drink. “Talk.”

“What?”

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Geralt.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“You’re not sleeping again, are you? How many days this time? Or are we at weeks?”

Geralt didn’t look up from his hand and several moments passed. Eventually, he threw the cards onto the table in front of him, unable to concentrate anyway. “Three weeks.”

“ _Three weeks._ Shit. No wonder those elves got the jump on you.” He received a scathing look, but Geralt didn’t argue. “What is that Vesemir always used to say… _meditation is but a temporary replacement for a good night’s sleep_. Does the bard know?”

“No.”

“Don’t you think you should tell him? You’re beating yourself up over his shoulder...”

“ _No._ ”

“What if I tell him?”

“Then you’ll be buying your own drinks for the next fifty years.”

“Oof, brutal.” Eskel placed his stein down and gathered his cards up. “Well, there’s only one thing for it…”

“Hm?”

“Let’s get absolutely fucking wasted.”

* * *

Jaskier woke in the night. He wasn’t sure what had disturbed him - the entire room was dark and silent - but when he rolled over onto his good side, he found Geralt kneeling at his bedside. The Witcher was facedown with his forearms resting on the mattress above his head. When Jaskier brushed his fingers across the back of his wrist, he tensed and lifted his face from the blanket. The bard smiled gently, “I didn’t hear you come up…”

“Sorry, I didn’t want to wake you…” Geralt rubbed his eyes and leaned his jaw on the heel of his hand. “How’s your shoulder?”

“Fine, fine… bit stiff, but I’ll be back to my lute in a few days,” Jaskier paused. “You look… uh, rough night?”

“Eskel wanted to play this game that Lambert taught him a couple of years ago. It’s called ‘never have I ever’... some elf game. It started with ‘I have never fucked a succubus’, and it just went downhill from there.”

Jaskier guffawed and then clasped his hands over his mouth to stem it. Being unable to laugh without hurting was the _worst_ thing about this whole arrow situation. “Geralt, that’s… that’s just too funny. I can’t… how many drinks did you get through?”

“Too many…” 

“But not enough.”

“Hmm?”

“To sleep.”

Geralt sat up suddenly, his brow creased and lips turned into a deep frown.

“Don’t give me that look,” Jaskier pushed himself upright, and folded his legs. “I worked it out. It had to be. I remember reading something at Kaer Morhen about Witcher meditation… that it’s good, but not quite _good enough_ . And that’s all I’ve really seen you do for over three weeks, maybe even longer. And factor in the shakes, the… fact that you missed the elves-- no no, don’t… I don’t blame you, come back.” His Witcher had lifted abruptly from the side of the bed and turned away, head bowed so that his face couldn’t be seen. _Shame. That was what an ashamed Witcher looked like._

Jaskier bit down on the inside of his cheek. “Geralt, come here. Come here right now.”

He watched the indecision ripple its way across Geralt’s shoulders, before he turned; it took a moment to look Jaskier in the eye. “I… I didn’t…”

“Want me to know. Oh, I know. You haven’t been right since the Eternal Fire. Come, lay your head here.” Jaskier moved one of the pillows he had been using behind him, and then the other across his lap. The Witcher hesitated. “Geralt.” _Do as you’re told._ The second part went unsaid, but his tone had the desired effect. Geralt slid onto the bed and rested his head on the indicated pillow, hands clasped on his chest and amber eyes rolled up to look at the bottom of Jaskier’s chin. 

The bard gently stroked a hand across his forehead, brushing silver strands away from his eyes. “When I was younger, I often couldn’t sleep,” he spoke softly, thumb running down the line of Geralt’s jaw. “And so my mother, she would sing lullabies-- _don’t_ look at me like that… you need to humour me. Anyway, it was… just hearing her voice, having her stroke my hair… it made me feel at peace. I want to give it a try.”

“Jaskier, it won’t--.”

“What have you got to lose? You haven’t slept for weeks. To the point you can’t _be_ you, and then what? I get to pick you out of some wyvern’s teeth.” Jaskier took a deep breath through his nose. “I won’t tell anyone I sang you to sleep, Geralt. There are no man points to be lost. Close your eyes.” 

The Witcher stared at him. 

“ _Close your eyes._ ” Eventually, Geralt gave in. He shuffled his shoulders to get comfortable and closed his eyes as Jaskier continued to pet his head, face and neck. _Hmm, now what to sing… ahh, yes, but of course._

“The sun is sleeping quietly, once upon a century, wistful oceans calm and red, ardent caresses laid to rest. For my dreams I hold my life, for wishes I behold the night, the truth at the end of time, losing faith makes a crime,” he was careful to keep his caresses gentle, stroking his fingers across the knotted scars at Geralt’s collarbone, and then back up his neck to play with the soft, white hair behind his ear. 

“I wish for this night-time to last for a lifetime, the darkness around me, shores of a solar sea… oh how I wish to go down with the sun, sleeping, weeping… with you.” At first Geralt seemed unmoved, but as Jaskier continued, he could feel the tension melt away from his neck and shoulders and watched as clasped fingers loosened on his chest. “Sorrow has a human heart, from my god it will depart, I’d sail before a thousand moons, never finding where to go. Two hundred twenty-two days of light, will be desired by a night, a moment for the poet’s play, until there’s nothing left to say...”

Geralt’s jaw was slack, his breathing measured and Jaskier could feel the pulse in his neck as his fingers brushed past. You could be forgiven for thinking Witchers were _dead_ when they were asleep, but the bard knew how long to wait. He allowed himself a pleased smile, but it wasn’t at Geralt’s expense. Far from it. His heart brimming, he continued to stroke the Witcher’s hair for some time in the quiet. _Sleep, my dear Witcher, sleep well._

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

They headed north-west towards Oxenfurt. After enduring the glut of humanity in and around White Orchard, the wilderness was a welcome reprieve. Geralt inhaled the scent of summer blooms and enjoyed the feel of the sun on the back of his neck; his insomnia had receded and now he slept easily, listening to the snuffle of nocturnal animals and the gentle heartbeat of his travelling companion. Jaskier, however…

“Geralt, it is so _hot_ … I need… _need_ to take a swim. And then sit in the shade. Forever. Please.” The bard stumbled dramatically, making a great show of drinking the last dregs from his water skin. “I think I’m dying of thirst. I don’t remember what it is to be _cool_ , Geralt.”

Eventually, the Witcher gave in. Instead of entering the city proper, they stopped by the waterfall a couple of days ride to the east. Geralt agreed they could spend some time cooling off; his armour was starting to become uncomfortable where the sweat was drying on the inside and could use a wash too. It was a beautiful location and Jaskier admired the cascading falls with child-like awe as Geralt disappeared into the surrounding woodlands to find food. The bard wasted no time in stripping down completely - well, once Geralt had confirmed there were no leeches present - and diving in.

The hunting was good and it didn’t take Geralt long to net them a couple of pheasants for a late lunch. He returned to the camp and patted Roach on the nose as she lifted her head to greet him. Catch hung up on a nearby branch, he glanced towards the cascading waterfall and listened.

_Jaskier was singing._

Not unusual. Expected, really. But this was special. _Different_ from the bawdy tavern ballads and folk song ditties he recited to the masses. It was powerful and operatic. Without an audience, the need to please or the desire to earn some coin, Jaskier sang with unbridled power and joy. He sang for himself alone. It was pure. _Breathtaking_ . Since Geralt had fought the ethereal, the purity of _this_ private Jaskier held an irresistible draw; comfort, familiarity and beauty all wrapped into one blue-eyed bard. Geralt had never heard anyone sing like it before, and he liked to think he was the only one who ever heard Jaskier in this way.

The Witcher sat down on the bank of the river cross-legged to listen, elbow on the side of his knee and his chin in his palm. 

> _“Wind, and my heart swimming in collected words,  
>  Moved by the wind, in through the world.  
> Clouds, like a voice that we all recognise  
> Carry the holding future.”_

Jaskier could be heard even over the thrum of the water as it toppled over the cliffs. Such a performance belonged in a concert hall with a backing orchestra of strings and brass, the audience held in rapture by the raw passion of Jaskier’s voice. But here it was, all for Geralt alone.

> _“Moon, on the sky as a trembling heart,  
>  Shown on the glass unsteadily.  
> Stars, shedding tears in an overflowing stream  
> I see the night all around me.”_

He followed Jaskier’s silhouette with his eyes as he moved behind the falls. When he stepped through the curtain of water, it flowed down his naked back and shoulders, plastering his messy brown hair to his head and accentuating every curve and angle on the way down… and suddenly Geralt didn’t want to be on the river bank anymore. He pulled off his shirt, gloves and boots and slid into the river without making a sound. 

The water was pleasantly cold against his skin and Geralt spent some time floating lazily on his back as he drew closer to his prey. While Jaskier’s back was turned he hauled himself onto the rocky platform that jutted out below the falls, and wrapped his arms around the bard’s naked waist. The squeal of surprise was gratifying, and Geralt placed a possessive kiss over the fresh scar on Jaskier’s shoulder, followed by another just below his ear. The knot in his stomach was tightening, and he pressed himself against Jaskier’s bare backside. 

“You brute, I thought it was a… a drowner, or… something,” Jaskier was breathing heavily, _from the cold obviously_ , and tilted his head to accept more of Geralt’s mouth down his neck. “Mmm. And what have I done to deserve such sweet kisses, hm?” 

“You sing beautifully when you think no one is listening,” Geralt spoke into his ear, one hand drifting lower over Jaskier’s hips in search of--

Jaskier laughed and stepped away from his Witcher, placing both hands on his broad chest to keep him at bay. “Wait… wait… I need to hear that again. Properly. Look me in the eye, right here, Geralt.” He pointed at one of his cornflower blue eyes, head cocked to the side expectantly. “Say it again. I think I misheard.” 

Geralt scowled at him and with one hand shoved him off of the platform and into the river, using about the same amount of effort as he would to flick a sparrow off its perch. Unphased, Jaskier exploded to the surface and brandished a victorious forefinger in the air, slapping the water triumphantly as the Witcher dived in after him with all the grace of a _bloody merman_ , disappearing below the surface. “I _knew_ it. I _knew_ you liked my singing. You can’t take it back, I’ve heard it from the Witcher’s m--.” Geralt grabbed his ankle and pulled him under as he swam past, releasing him in favour of swimming to shore and hauling himself back up onto the bank. He sat back on his elbows and waited.

Jaskier clambered up after him moments later with considerably less grace and a good deal of spluttering, but wasted no time in bounding into Geralt’s lap. He settled his knees either side of the Witcher’s hips and planted both hands on his shoulders. Jaskier stared down into those rich amber eyes, his grin practically splitting his face in half. “ _I. Knew. It_.”

“Mmhm.” Geralt tilted his head to the side, one eyebrow quirked, but Jaskier just _couldn’t_ let it go.

“So tell me, Geralt. Is it my falsetto? Do you like m--.”

The easiest way to shut him up was with a kiss, and so that was what Geralt did. He wrapped his arms about Jaskier’s back, one hand on his neck, and pulled him down onto the floor. The bard melted, the cold of the water chased away by the heat of Geralt’s lips and the roaming hands that teased down his back and thighs. 

“Alright, alright…” Jaskier pulled away and Geralt settled on his elbows again. “I will graciously accept your compliment. However, I require some kind of homage to my brilliance. _Proof_ , Geralt. _Proof._ ” He pushed the mess of damp hair from his face, both hands resting on top of his head as he admired Geralt’s bare chest. “ _I’m_ naked, and _you’re_ not… so, I feel that you need to be a gentleman here and address the imbalance.” 

Jaskier yelped as Geralt tipped him off and onto his back; the Witcher's lips were hot against his skin and he choked out a low moan when that torturous, _glorious_ trail of kisses reached his hips. “Urgh… remind me to sing songs with a female lead more _often--fuck, Geralt._ ” He bucked into the Witcher’s mouth and slid his fingers through damp silver hair to anchor himself. Jaskier’s eyes drifted closed, listening to his own ragged pants and the wetness of Geralt’s lips and tongue working him to his release. As he drew closer, he lifted his head and gazed down his torso; he caught those amber eyes watching him, afire, as that oft wicked mouth engulfed him completely and it was just _too much_. Jaskier didn’t bother stifling his groan of ecstasy as they had to in every flea-bitten inn and arched into his lover’s grip.

“You… yes, fine. That…” Jaskier propped himself shakily on his elbows, watching Geralt push himself up into a crouch and draw a thumb across his lower lip. “You are far, _far_ too good at that.”

The Witcher smirked and leaned forward onto one hand, their faces an inch apart. “You inspire me.” And then he licked the side of Jaskier’s face in a long, deliberate trail, and the bard blustered in alarm. 

“Geralt, you beast!” Jaskier wiped the mixture of saliva and _himself_ from his cheek frantically with the back of his hand. The Witcher was laughing as he stood up and walked away. Jaskier could see his breeches were tented with arousal, “Where are you going? I’m not finished…”

“Hungry.”

“Pfft, of course you are. You’re always bloody hungry.” Jaskier staggered to his feet, his legs still barely recovered from his orgasm, and grabbed his shirt from the river bank. “You know, Geralt… if heroic operas are your thing, there’s a show on in Oxenfurt at the moment that you might be interested in.”

“I am not attending an opera with you, Jaskier.”

“Why not?”

Geralt looked up from where he was plucking the pheasant across his lap as if Jaskier had just asked what colour the sky was. 

“ _Look_ , you can’t just… _avoid_ people. There’s more to life than killing monsters, sucking my… and plucking pheasants.”

“Mmhm.”

“Come on. Please. For me.” Jaskier wasn’t above begging. He could beg very prettily indeed. “You do look so nice in a bit of finery, and… you’ll enjoy it. I promise.”

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not on your life.”

Geralt heaved a sigh and stared at the bard for some time, trying to find a way that he could escape this one without enduring weeks of moping and pining. “Fine.”

“Really?” Jaskier knew Geralt would rather spend a night in a dungeon with a striga than tolerate people. “And you’ll, you know, not… _glare_ and… you’ll put on some nice clothes.”

“ _Yes._ ”

“Geralt, this is going to be so much fun. You won’t regret it.” The bard bounced across the camp in search of clean clothes, already plotting the evening. 

“Hmm.” Geralt prepared his lunch.


	4. Chapter 4

“Leave the knife, Geralt. You can’t take that into a concert hall.”

“I can’t be _armed_?”

“No.” 

The Witcher growled, snatched the hunting knife from his belt and slammed it down on the dresser. Jaskier was tempted to let Geralt have it. He looked otherwise absolutely ravishing; scrubbed clean, shaven and the hair at his temples brushed into a loose tail behind his head. The emerald green doublet set off the fire in his eyes, and his white undershirt remained open at the neck, flaunting his jawline and collarbone. _Was the opera even necessary? Jaskier could just take him now. They could go another time..._

The bard managed to pick his chin off the floor, and moved forward to adjust Geralt’s already perfectly placed collar. “No one is going to try and kill you at the opera. It’s just not the _done thing._ ” He reached behind the Witcher’s back and pulled another blade from where he had hidden it under his doublet, casting it aside with the other.

“In my experience, the affluent are usually the most devious.” The Witcher batted Jaskier’s hands away and gazed longingly at his two swords propped up by the door. “In and out. No… pleasantries.”

“Now, now… you need the full experience. Wine, food, conversation. Besides, I am quite looking forward to watching all the courtly ladies swoon over you. You look like you’ve stepped straight out of a fairytale.” Jaskier gave himself a quick appraising look in the cracked mirror adorning the wall nearby, before indicating the door with a flourish of his hand. “After you, good sir.”

Geralt let out a long-suffering sigh as they left the room behind. And what part of the fairytale would they believe him to be, he wondered; monster or hero? 

* * *

Jaskier was in his element. He weaved his way through the crowds with enviable poise, greeting familiar faces with an exaggerated enthusiasm - kisses to the cheek, shaking of hands - they all knew Geralt before he was introduced too. The Witcher became increasingly uncomfortable as his deeds were recounted to him by people he had never laid eyes on before. They regarded him with an odd mixture of awe and distrust. Where Jaskier appeared to float on the social ambience, Geralt felt like he kept stumbling over his own feet. 

He managed to find his way to the bar and a large goblet of wine, but was quickly cornered by one of the ‘courtly ladies’ Jaskier had predicted. The smell of her rotten teeth and the sag of her jowls reminded Geralt of a grave hag, and he had never been more grateful to have Jaskier suddenly appear at his side.

The bard steered her away with a social finesse that left Geralt slightly in awe, and when Jaskier returned he offered an apologetic smile. “Lady Fenworth, widowed for some years now… she rather likes the younger man.”

“Jaskier, I definitely _do not_ fall into that category.” 

“Yes, well… you do a very fine job of imitating one. Come, we need to find our seats. It’s never pleasant to be late and clamber over the laps of your fellow patrons. You never know what you might accidentally _sit on_.”

Geralt really didn’t want to know.

* * *

Jaskier had managed to secure them excellent seats by pulling a few strings. _Not that Geralt would appreciate it, of course_. They sat in the upper circle with only the rail of the balcony between them and the drop into the stalls. All red velvet and gold, the hall was as boastful and opulent as the aristocrats that now occupied it and Geralt leaned over the bar to look down on the crush of humanity below. “How long will this be, Jaskier?”

“Oh, about two hours, then there’s an intermission…”

“ _Two hours_ and then there’s _more._ ”

“Trust me. You will love this. It’s the story of a young knight who heads off to war, when he returns, his lover has been betrothed to an evil--... oh, you know what, just listen.” 

The braziers lining the stairs were smothered and the light died away as the first strings began to sing from the orchestra. The first of the actors arrived and soon the domed hall was filled with the beautiful notes of his tenor. Jaskier tried to focus on the story, but kept losing its threads as his attention drifted across to his companion. 

At first, his Witcher appeared unimpressed. He kept glancing at the rather rotund fellow sitting next to him and then onto the heads below, but as the drama and tempo increased, his attention became fixated on the stage. When his eyes drifted closed and his chin tilted down to his chest, Jaskier just didn’t have the heart to tell him that leaning over the balcony was viewed as poor etiquette. He was _enamoured._ Not by the staging, the scenery, or the beautiful soprano draped in silk, but by the _music._ And Jaskier had never felt so _in love._ One of his hands strayed across and brushed Geralt’s thigh, discrete and measured, and the Witcher’s knee nudged him back. 

As the intermission drew closer though, Geralt suddenly pressed a hand over his chest, seizing the medallion that hung there. He turned away from the stage and looked back up at the sea of faces, and then at Jaskier who, having seen Geralt’s sudden alertness, was now suitably worried. _What?_ He mouthed it theatrically. The returned expression was one of chagrin, but thankfully the torches flickered to life and the hall was soon full of the noise of bustling skirts and grumbled requests for refreshment, allowing them to speak openly.

“Geralt, _what’s wrong?_ ”

“ _Something_ . There’s… _something_ here. Stay close. It may just be a succubus. They like gatherings like this. Lots of easy and willing targets.”

“A succubus?” Jaskier’s eyes widened, and he span around in his seat in search of… he wasn’t sure. A monster holding a large sign to indicate its location? That would be lovely, wouldn’t it? He rose with Geralt and they shuffled their way to the stairs that led back down into the foyer. 

Jaskier tried to occupy himself with the academic discussions surrounding the piece they had just seen, but he was too busy watching Geralt prowl through the press of nobility as they sipped at wine and held their banal conversations. On the hunt, the Witcher’s awkwardness and discomfort had vanished, and the intent gaze that he levied on several unsuspecting aristocrats earned him a few of those promised swoons. He moved with a fluid grace that left many fans a-flutter in his wake.

When Geralt returned to his side, Jaskier lowered his voice to an urgent whisper. “So? Is it dangerous?”

“I haven’t found it yet. Whatever it is, it wants to lay low.” 

And then suddenly he stood rigid and stared across the room. Jaskier followed his gaze to a dark-haired young woman with skin the colour of moonlight. She would have been beautiful, but there was something _off_ ; her eyes were a fraction too large, her nose and mouth too petite, and her silken dress hung from her as if it were made from smoke. 

“Geralt…”

“Bruxa.”

“Bruxa… what…” The Bard wracked his brains for the relevant volume. Their last winter at Kaer Morhen felt like an eternity ago, but he found the desired entry and nearly choked on the mouthful of wine he had drawn, “...that’s a _vampire_.”

“Yes.”

“Is she hunting?”

“Probably.”

“Fuck, you’re not… _I made you leave your swords at the inn._ ”

“Hmm. Because murder at the opera is not the done thing, correct?”

“Oh, shut it. What are we going to do?”

“Stay here.”

“Geralt, _Geralt…_ don’t get yourself…” And he was gone. Stepping through the crowds as his prey disappeared through an ajar door and into a narrow, darkened hallway. Never one to do as ordered, Jaskier abandoned his drink and pursued his Witcher. As he stepped into the corridor, an ear-splitting screech nearly ruptured his eardrums. He slammed his hands to his ears and almost buckled to his knees.

Geralt had deflected the physical brunt of the attack with a _Quen_ shield and relieved one of the decorative suits of armour of its halberd; it wasn’t silver, but it would have to do. The creature hissed, her petite features suddenly wrought with lines and teeth as her human visage began to falter. The Witcher approached, spinning the halberd into his right hand and tucking it up behind his arm, bladed edge pointed at the floor… 

_“Geralt._ ” Jaskier squeaked as a cold hand gripped around his throat, his own darting up to grab the pale wrist to try and pull it away, but he would have had better luck bending steel. The Witcher span on his heel, keeping the bruxa in his periphery and the new threat at the centre of his attention.

“You know, we really didn’t expect to run into a Witcher at the opera. Even one that seems to have lost his swords,” the voice above Jaskier’s head purred in a southern accent - male Nilfgaardian - and from what Jaskier could see of his obsidian black doublet, wealthy. “It is a shame, really. I was rather looking forward to a pleasant evening.”

Geralt gritted his teeth, but didn’t move. Not even a twitch.

The bruxa purred demurely and preened her long black hair. There was no heartbeat behind Jaskier’s head, and the hand that crushed his windpipe was cold and deathly pale. Jaskier choked out a few words in hopes of saving his skin. “You’re a… vampires superiores… higher vampire. You… you only usually hunt… during the full moon. You aren’t… here to… cause trouble. Bruxa can’t… help herself.”

“Ahh, it seems we have a scholar in our midst. I am suitably impressed, human. If your Witcher allows Lillian to leave unscathed, I will let you live.” This was child’s play for the vampire. He cared not whether Jaskier lived or died, spoke or remained silent.

Geralt could barely breathe. Higher vampires were extremely rare. And _extremely_ powerful. And yet… he had found one. At the opera. With his figurative trousers around his ankles in terms of armament, and it currently held Jaskier by the throat. He had no choice. “She can go.” His voice rasped through the silence. The bruxa flitted to a nearby window, and with a final departing hiss, she disappeared into the night. 

As soon as she was safe, the higher vampire released Jaskier’s throat. The bard collapsed to his knees, wheezing, his own hand lifting to touch the bruises blossoming on his skin. The vampire’s cloak brushed past his elbow as the creature approached Geralt, his feet barely making a sound on the floor. 

“Well, well… aren’t you dashing?” Coal black eyes looked the Witcher up and down, clearly unphased by the halberd still held in a white knuckle grip, or the possibility that Geralt could cast ‘igni’ at any moment. That level of arrogance only came when one was assured of one’s own immortality. “I am used to seeing your kind wallowing in filth and gore. No better than beasts. I must say… this is a definite improvement.” He considered Geralt’s throat, and the medallion that sat dormant against his chest. “Perhaps next time.” The vampire tilted his head in a half bow, and disappeared through the tall oaken doors into the night.

Geralt cast the halberd to the floor and seemed to miraculously appear at Jaskier’s side. The bard allowed his hand to be pulled away from his neck, and managed a weak smile. His throat _hurt_ , but he knew there was no lasting damage. “Well, not quite the evening I expected…”

Once he was certain Jaskier wasn’t about to collapse, Geralt allowed himself to breathe. “It was fine. Nice, actually. I’m…” The Witcher clenched his jaw, and looked back towards the concert hall. Every fibre of his being wanted to pursue his prey, but he was a man of his word. “Do you… do you want to see the second half?”

Jaskier laughed. It hurt. “No, I think I’ve had enough of the opera this evening… the clientele has rather gone downhill since I last attended; I’ve lost the taste. Come, let’s go get a keg of beer and go to bed.”

* * *

The innkeep happily provided for a handful of lintars, and Jaskier lounged on the bed with a brimming tankard propped on his chest. His neck was sore, and the bruises had bloomed in strips of black and blue across his throat. Geralt was pacing.

“Let it go. You can’t slay every monster. Some just get away. Let someone else worry about it tonight.”

He received a grunt in response. The Witcher stood by the window for another ten minutes, before apparently resigning himself to staying put. There was something else bothering him though. Something more than _the one that got away_.

Jaskier had already divested himself of all clothes but his undershirt, and hummed happily as Geralt pulled his doublet over his head and kicked his breeches off. He shifted to the right across the bed to make room for those broad shoulders, and tilted against the sturdy, warm body that settled next to him. “So, tell me, what did you think? I know you would have found the crowds irritating, but the music itself?”

Geralt knocked back the remainder of his drink. “It was fine.”

“ _Fine?_ ” Jaskier blinked incredulously. “ _Geralt_ , you just listened to some of the finest voices the Northern Kingdoms has to offer… and you think they were _fine._ ”

The Witcher sat tight-lipped, then side-eyed him, clearly calculating his next sentence. “I prefer…” he leaned to the side to ladle more ale into his tankard, then returned. “I prefer you.”

“You prefer _me._ ”

“Why do you always repeat what I say?” Irritable.

“I… because sometimes I don’t fully believe the words I hear.”

The Witcher growled. “You’re wasted on the road with me. What if that vampire had ripped out your throat this evening? You would have never sang another word. Without me, you would have been none the wiser. No bestiaries read, no monsters studied, and no following a Witcher into a darkened hallway...” He stared glumly into his drink. “You should be on that stage. _Not_ sleeping in the dirt with...” He trailed off again, angry. With the vampire, with himself, with the whole fucking situation. Just… _angry._

Jaskier shifted and slid a hand under Geralt’s chin, forcing him to tilt his head to the side. “Don’t do that to yourself, Geralt,” he spoke gently, stroking his thumb across that angular jawline. “I choose you over any life I could have here. Every day. Because I want to. You are more precious to me than any stage, any fame. Sleeping in the dirt with you is the happiest I have ever been.” He stretched his legs, running the back of his fingers down the Witcher’s cheek as he let his face go. “Although, sleeping with you in a bed is always a pleasant interlude.”

Geralt huffed a laugh and Jaskier took that as a signal that the self-deprecating introspection had come to an end. For now. They sat in companionable silence and emptied the keg. Jaskier knew Geralt was barely phased, but the fuzzy drunkenness crept up on him easily, and he used it as an excuse sprawl across Geralt’s lap in a giggling heap and steal sloppy kisses. 

“You know… you looked really good tonight, really, _really_ good. I mean, you _always_ look good, but tonight… you looked...” On his back across Geralt’s lap, Jaskier pinched forefinger and thumb together on both hands and winked. “Pretty sure half the room wanted to get in your breeches, and the other half probably...” He ran three fingers over Geralt’s lower lip, biting his tongue between his front teeth.

“You’re a boorish drunk.”

“And you’re a… boorish… Witcher.” Jaskier sat up and shuffled up against the headboard, giving Geralt his best come hither look. The bastard _laughed_ at him, but still cocked a leg over and settled down astride his lap, craning down for a languid, sultry kiss that left them both hard. 

Jaskier took both of them in hand, and grinned into the kiss as Geralt rocked insistently into his grip, those broad palms cupping Jaskier’s face to keep him close. It was a sloppy, breathy exchange. The soft skin of Geralt’s length felt _perfect_ against Jaskier’s, and the Witcher enforced a torturously slow pace with the languorous roll of hips. Jaskier moaned wantonly into Geralt’s mouth as he came. The sensation of Jaskier spilling over him and that desperate, needy moan sent Geralt over the edge and he shuddered and gasped against Jaskier’s lips only a handful of moments later. 

“Oh God, you’re too beautiful…” Jaskier slumped back, rubbing a hand up one muscular thigh. 

“And you’ve clearly had too much to drink.”

“No, no… I… know what I see, Geralt. I see a beautiful man. With a beautiful cock, and a beautiful… mouth. You have a very nice mouth.” 

“Jaskier, stop talking. Go to sleep.” Geralt shifted from Jaskier’s lap, pulled his own shirt off and used it to clean his lover enough for him to be comfortable.

“Yes. You’re right, of course… always right.” It took about fifteen seconds. Geralt counted. He watched Jaskier doze for a time. Bruised, but peaceful, and _safe_. He tugged the blankets over his bard and propped himself in an armchair by the window, staring out into the dark street below. His medallion remained inert, but then… higher vampires never did have an effect.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

"Skellige?" Jaskier took the waterskin from Geralt as he passed it down.

"Yes. I received a letter during our stay in Oxenfurt requesting my services."

"Oh? How did they know where to find you?"

"Druids." Geralt replied, as if this explained everything. Jaskier raised his eyebrows in question, but received no further detail. He didn't push it. Geralt was quieter than normal. It wasn't a sullen, brooding quiet - that was standard Geralt fare - but a consuming, anxious one that made the Witcher pace and fidget. He tried to cover it in his usual gruff way, shrugging off Jaskier's concerns with irritable grunts and the word 'nagging'. The bard knew why.

Getting to Skellige meant catching a boat from Novigrad. Geralt hadn't been anywhere near the free city since his capture over a year ago. The wounds had disappeared physically, but the ghost of them burned his skin, and the memory of what he had suffered - whatever that was, Jaskier still did not know - haunted his sleep. Every night as they drew closer to their destination, Geralt spooned up to Jaskier's back and butted his forehead against his neck in a silent request. Sometimes Jaskier sang softly, and others he hummed, but each time he only stopped when those strong arms relaxed around him and Geralt slipped into peaceful slumber. He would have to talk about it someday, but Jaskier really couldn't complain about his choice of coping mechanism.

As the towers of the free city peeked over the horizon, Geralt drew Roach to a stop and gazed down the path with an indecipherable look in his eyes. Jaskier reached a hand up to brush his fingers across Geralt's knee. "Everything alright?"

"Fine."

Jaskier opened his mouth to rebuke that answer, but snapped it shut with an audible click. The answers he might receive would be at best unhelpful and dishonest, and at worst the start of an argument. "Shall we proceed then?"

A grunt and the Witcher tapped Roach with his heels. They entered the Free City of Novigrad together and Jaskier did his best to quieten his frantic heart.

* * *

The Eternal Fire had grown brazen and blatant in the time since Jaskier and Geralt had last encountered them. Every street corner seemed to be occupied by a preacher adorned in red and white robes perched on top of an upturned apple box. They preached hate, intolerance and fear and Jaskier found himself sneering at one in particular who caught sight of Geralt’s yellow eyes and trademark swords and tried to incite his crowd of spectators to violence. Thankfully, the citizens of Novigrad still had enough about them to realise the inanity of such an endeavour, and Geralt ignored the yells and curses hurled in his direction in favour of steering Roach towards the harbour. Mostly, they were permitted to fade into the crowds, and Geralt drew his hood over his head for good measure; he was still ill-at-ease, but as they left the communal areas behind and entered the industrial zones around the docks, the Eternal Fire seemed to dissipate.

They stopped in one of the many taverns lining the harbour wall. Geralt tied Roach to a nearby fence and they ducked inside for a flagon of ale and trencher of bread. The patrons were loud, bawdy, and rather than set himself up for a song, Jaskier chose to sit close to Geralt’s side and people watch. “You never told me about the job…”

“There’s a King’s Moot,” Geralt had already inhaled his food - the Witcher metabolism never ceased to amaze Jaskier - and was nursing his drink. “We’ve been invited.”

“To a King’s Moot on the Skellige Isles? I had no idea their Rhena had passed away. But with all due respect, why do they need a Witcher in attendance? And you said ‘we’. Geralt, stop keeping me in suspense...”

The Witcher sighed. “Skellige has a siren problem. More pronounced than ever before. Their supply ships keep getting drawn off course and shattering against the cliffs. No survivors. No supplies for their celebrations. The druids, the usual methods… nothing’s working. They are worried there is a new species of siren that has found a way to overcome traditional defences.”

“ _Sirens…_ in Freya’s name! I have always wanted to hear the siren’s song. To understand the irresistible allure. They are the darkness behind my craft, oh… this is so exciting. I heard they have wings and can surround a ship on all sides.”

“Hmm.”

“And the… ‘we’?”

Geralt growled. “They want you to perform at the coronation.”

“They… want… me to perform at the…” Jaskier squeaked and clasped his hands together in front of his face, barely able to suppress the swell of excitement in his chest. He practically bounced in his chair, and couldn’t help but grasp the Witcher’s elbow and shake his arm. “ _Geralt. This is the best adventure yet._ ”

The Witcher looked unconvinced.

“What? Come on.”

“Jaskier, sirens are dangerous. The whole crossing is… I would have preferred to complete this contract on my own."

Jaskier slumped and hid his pout behind a mouthful of ale. “You know, you could have told me earlier. I need to _prepare_. One cannot simply turn up at a royal coronation with folktales and sketched rhymes. But never fear, I shall practice on the crossing…”

Geralt smirked behind his drink.

* * *

Their contact - a stout, red-haired man by the name of Jacoby - met them the following day. Geralt made arrangements for Roach, and she wickered angrily at him as he left her in the harbour stables. In horse, Jaskier surmised, this irritable twitter meant 'how dare you leave me behind, you white-headed bastard' and the bard snuck her a departing apple as a farewell. Geralt ascended the gangplank with Jaskier at his heels.

The ship itself was beautiful, in Jaskier’s humble opinion. All sleek lines and hard angles. The white and green sails remained furled up against the yardarms while she sat sedately in port, but soon they would be pregnant with the energetic wind crashing across the open ocean, her hull cresting majestically across the waves... 

Unfortunately, the reality was far less romantic. No sooner had the ship crossed the threshold of the bay into open water did Jaskier's stomach give its first involuntary lurch. As the buildings of Novigrad faded on the horizon, Jaskier was hanging over the larboard rail and emptying the contents of his last meal into the sea. Geralt sat on the rail next to him, his feet hooked through a knot of rope to stabilise him against the pitch and yaw of the ship. He occasionally wiped Jaskier's hair back over his head, the palm of his glove mopping away beads of sweat.

The bard flopped down onto his knees, forehead pressing against the wooden planks next to Geralt's leg. "I bet you have never been more attracted to me than right now…" Throat hoarse, he cracked a meagre smile, before his eyes widened and he scrambled to vomit over the side again.

"I can barely control myself." Geralt commented wryly, turning his gaze to follow the sailors as they went about their duties. "You do realise this is calm weather."

"I… this has never happened to me before…"

"Hmm. Performance anxiety?"

"Oh fuck off Ger--" He vomited again. The meal hadn't even been that big...

Jaskier vaguely heard heavy booted feet approach him and a thick Skellige accent. "Here ya' go, Geralt. Just as ordered. Should help."

The Witcher took whatever he had been handed and hauled his bard to his feet. "Drink this." 

"What is it-- oh my God, it smells worse than a rotfiend… or you covered in rotfiend, no."

"If you keep vomiting like you are, there is no way you're going to be able to sing. It's part of the contract. Drink it now, or we don't get paid."

Jaskier groaned and allowed Geralt to put the vial to his lips. Surprisingly, it tasted a lot better than it smelled. Sickly sweet, but with a sharp tang akin to mint. For a terrible moment, Jaskier was certain it had just made everything worse… and then, after one final, threatening gurgle, his stomach settled. "It… it worked. What was it…?"

"You really don't want to know. Have something to drink and get some rest. I'll wake you up for dinner."

For once, Jaskier didn't argue.

* * *

The evening approached quickly and now that his stomach had ceased it's rebellion, Jaskier could enjoy the clammer of activity around him. The Skelligens were an open, industrious lot and the ship ran with an almost Nilfgaardian efficiency. Not that Jaskier would have dared say it out loud. After dinner, many of the sailors retired to their hammocks below deck, and the first watch occupied themselves with a fiddle and a flute. Throat still sore, Jaskier didn't join in with the songs, but was content to stamp his foot and clap along. So occupied with the music, it took him some time to notice the Geralt-shaped absence on deck.

He tapped the elbow of one of the Skelligens and inquired after the Witcher, only to have the sailor point to the sky. Jaskier looked up into the darkness, and squinted until he found the vague outline of a man high in the tallest of the masts. Geralt was sitting on a yardarm and gazing out into the dark ocean intently. His only support was the rope that ran taut over the top of the sail, and he propped his feet on it with the same nonchalance with which he perched on a barstool. Jaskier wished for the daylight; he could just imagine the wind running it's fingers through Geralt's white mane and pawing at his shirt…

"Why's he up there?"

"Doin' what he's bein' paid fer. Few more hours an' we'll be crossin' into siren territory." 

Jaskier swallowed the mixture of excitement and apprehension that bubbled from his stomach. Or was that…? He knocked back a bit more of the remedy he had been given just in case.

* * *

It happened quite suddenly. The rain began first, lashing down onto the deck and stirring the waves into a fervour. Geralt yelled down through the roar of the ocean and a drum began to vibrate through the hull of the ship, rousing the sailors from their slumber. Jaskier stumbled up onto deck, jostled aside as the Skelligens unfurled rope from neat coils along the edges of the deck. They began tying each other to the masts and the railings and for a moment the bard watched in confusion… and then Geralt's broad palm was on his shoulder, pushing him towards a mast. "Geralt! This is very public, you know." His joke did little to cover the anxious tremor in his voice.

"Just remember. None of what you hear is true." The Witcher wrapped a rope around Jaskier's waist and then tightly around each wrist. He tugged at the knots to check their strength, and brushed a thumb over the back of Jaskier’s hand.

"Why are we tying ourselves up? I thought you just needed to stuff a bit of wax in your ears…"

"This is different. These sirens appear to have found a way to sing to a man's very soul."

"What about you… ow, not so tight…"

"Immune."

"How can you be so sure? If these are different…"

Geralt said nothing and Jaskier had that horrible sinking feeling he got every time Geralt took a risk with his own life. The bard tugged at the bindings and clenched his teeth as the rope bit into his skin. Surely, this was all a bit much…

 _And then they started to sing._

A heavenly note that rose from the darkness in a single, beautiful chorus; it seemed to quieten the anger of the ocean and mute the thunder of the skies. There was nothing but the voices. The sultry temptresses floating around the ship cooed at the men below. _Come to us. Be with us. We're waiting._

Jaskier felt breathless; he was vaguely aware of the groans and shouts of the sailors around him, but they were of little consequence. They didn't understand. They weren't wanted. The sirens wanted _Jaskier._ And he wanted them. To his very core, with every fibre of his being. "Geralt!" He didn't recognise the savage growl of his own voice. "Release me. Let me go! I must! Please!" 

The Witcher glanced back at his bard and watched him thrash against the ropes. There would be a vague voice in the back of Jaskier's head, telling him to stop, telling him that his wrists hurt, that it was _dangerous._ But every other part of him was screaming for freedom, yearning to throw himself into the outstretched arms of the sirens that circled the ship. Geralt reminded himself that this _was not_ Jaskier. The feral look in his eye and the wrought expression on his face was a product of forced chemistry and magic. _Not Jaskier._ He had mentally prepared for the sight, perched high in the mast and hidden by full sails, he had meditated and steeled himself. It still bit deep into his heart.

Geralt drew a bolt back into his crossbow and loosed it at a siren as she swooped low over his head. He clipped her wing and as she flailed onto the deck, he sliced through her neck with a flick of his silver sword. Igni crackled through the rain and sent the creatures screeching into the darkness, scorched. The Witcher was careful to aim away from the sails and timber, and made greater use of his crossbow than his signs. He dived to the left as a scaled tail whipped at him from the darkness. Two, three, four sirens fell under his sword, their corpses leaking dark blood onto wooden planks. The decoction lacing the silver made quick work of those even only marginally wounded.

They were clever though. And as her sisters distracted the Witcher, another bit through the ropes securing the wheel on the quarterdeck in the absence of an able sailor. As the boat lurched, Geralt stumbled to keep his footing. "Fuck." He abandoned his station at the centre of the main deck and stumbled up the steps. He threw himself against the wheel to stabilise it as the ship pitched again, threatening to spin out of control.

Hooking one of the ropes with his foot, he began to lash it through the spokes and metal rungs on the deck. Geralt caught sight of the human stumbling up in his wake as he worked - broken free from his bindings, driven to serve the siren's needs. With both hands occupied, he had little choice but to allow the knife to bury itself just above his hip as it snuck through the gap in his armour. It was no more than a switchblade; he headbutted his assailant in the centre of the face, and left him to flop onto the floor as he finished tying the knots in place.

When he returned to the main deck he instinctively checked that Jaskier was still secure. His bard was thrashing and snarling, his face warped and crazed, but the knots held true. As three more of their kind fell to Geralt, the sirens decided to abandon their assault and disappear into the storm. Their harmony faded, replaced by the crescendo of thunder and lashing rain. The ocean growled and bubbled, but the waves became more sedate as the storm began to abate…

One by one, the humans around him stirred from their stupor. They blinked and grumbled, and Geralt cut the first of them free once he had inspected their eyes. With a handful loose and able to free their fellows, he approached Jaskier, who leaned against the mast.

"I… I don't know what came over me. I… I have never heard such beautiful music. They… they called me. There was nothing I wanted more."

"Hmm." The Witcher used his hunting knife to cut the ropes away from Jaskier's wrists; he ran his thumbs over the red welts and elicited a hiss of discomfort from his bard. 

"Ahh, those are sore… wait, Geralt, there is a _knife_ sticking out of your side," Jaskier reached out to take the wooden hilt, and then snatched his fingers away. "Just… walking that off, or…?"

Geralt glanced down and quirked his eyebrows. Through the cold, adrenalin and remnants of the potion he had swallowed, he could barely feel it. But the blood soaking his shirt indicated that it was significant enough to need some attention. "Come, you can sew me up. I have something for your wrists too."

Jaskier lifted a hand to touch the side of Geralt’s face, drawing his thumb over his lower lip. White hair plastered to his head, rain dripping down his sharp jawline and soaking his shirt to collarbone and chest. The bard couldn’t understand how he could have wanted anything else. The sirens’ control had been truly terrifying. "If it's not your mouth, I'm not interested."

"Behave."

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

Considering what they had endured on the crossing, Jaskier felt their arrival at Kaer Trolde deserved far more fanfare. They pulled into the mouth of the harbour just as the sun crossed the midpoint in the sky and Jaskier practically ran down the gangplank as it made landfall. The port city was like a huge crustacean the sea had spit out onto the coastline; dead, black and rotted in place it had become the pitted mountains and gnarled rocks of the shore. If it wasn’t for the lively buzz of the Skelligens, hollering in their native tongue and moving about their business, it would feel almost ominous.

Geralt followed him more sedately, his bag slung lazily over his shoulder. “Someone should be meeting us--.”

“Geralt!” A familiar voice boomed from the crowd, and then suddenly: _Letho_. 

Jaskier was always overwhelmed by the sheer size of him. It was like a handful of dwarven smiths had carved a huge chunk from a mountain and roughly shaped it into a man, before setting it free unto the world and hoping for the best. He made Geralt look _slender_ in comparison. How was that even possible? 

As the leviathan of a Witcher drew closer, Jaskier found himself instinctively stepping closer to Geralt’s side, offering Letho his approximation of a friendly grin. The White Wolf moved forward and grasped the forearm proffered to him in greeting, and dipped his head, “I didn’t expect to see you here. Contract?” 

“Same reason as you, I expect. Escort a longship. Solve the siren problem.” Letho rubbed the back of his head, glancing at the red patch on Geralt's shirt, but said nothing.

“Hmm. Any progress?”

“Something… I’ll talk to you about it after the wake tomorrow.”

“The wake’s tomorrow? Seems quite soon.”

“Yes, they aren’t wasting any time. That’s what made me suspicious in the first place…”

“Suspicious is your natural state of mind. Not surprising.”

“Hrmph,” Letho acknowledged Jaskier with a jut of his chin, and turned towards the harbour proper. “Come on, they’ve set us up rooms in the house. I told them you would prefer to sleep on the ground like a dog, but they insisted. Something about being a guest of honour? Like fuck.”

Geralt huffed a laugh, and Jaskier rubbed his face in exasperation as they both followed the hulking brick wall of a Witcher through the town towards the citadel. The hike up the slopes carved into the mountainside was gruelling, and on occasion Jaskier stopped at the side of the road to catch his breath. Letho grew impatient, but Geralt offered only gentle encouragement; standing at the bard’s side, passing him water and running gloved fingers over the back of his shoulder when they needed to start moving again. Eventually, he took Jaskier’s bag, leaving him with just his lute. The bard grumbled, “I’m not some weak damsel, give it back.”

“I never said you were,” Geralt tilted his head, studying Jaskier closely. “The sirens demand a lot, even if they don’t touch you. You will feel better tomorrow. And then you can carry your own bag.” Jaskier opened his mouth to argue, but Letho shouted back over his shoulder to ‘hurry-the fuck-up’ and he trudged on.

* * *

“Mmm. You were right, I feel better already,” Jaskier stretched his legs out in the bath. A legitimate _bath_. Not some laundry basin hastily turned out and filled with scalding water. Bath salts and perfumes - “bubbles, Geralt, _bubbles_ ” - and enough room to completely submerge himself. Jaskier splayed his arms over the edges and hummed in delight as his skin tingled with the heat. Only one thing missing. “Witcher, join me. I’m not used to it being this way ‘round.” 

“In a moment,” Geralt murmured, barely paying attention. He was sorting through his bag with a furrowed brow, his mind clearly elsewhere. _That would simply not do._

It was time to start Jaskier’s favourite game. A game that always ended in his own victory. Because he was so damned good at it. _Geralt-baiting_. 

Jaskier tilted his head to the side and studied that broad back; he imagined the feel of muscled shoulders under his palms, the red crescent-moons he left behind from fingernails gripping on for dear life whenever Geralt touched him, the feel of his mouth and teeth on chest and hips and the tightness of Geralt's body even when it surrendered to him. Jaskier dropped an arm into the water and wrapped his hand around the hardness that responded to those salacious memories…

Geralt noticed the scent first. Floral perfumes and bath salts were all very nice, if a little cloying, but Jaskier soaked with desire was like nothing else on the Continent. To be blinded by Jaskier's scent alone, to practically taste his lust in the air and listen to those breathy pants as he pleasured himself… it sent sparks through Geralt’s chest and he couldn’t help but abandon his task and look. When he turned, he drank in the sight of his bard arched slightly from the water, his head tilted back and his lips parted. Jaskier was teasing himself only, not searching for release; his hand languorous as it stroked down his length, his thumb only rubbing lightly across the head.

Geralt was drawn towards the bath as if on the end of a string. The magnetism was more powerful than the tides of Chaos. Resistance was futile.

The Witcher splashed into the water fully clothed and engulfed Jaskier's mouth in a possessive kiss. He could feel the triumphant smile blossom against him, but didn't care. Geralt dragged his nails through the downy hair on Jaskier’s chest, a small revenge exacted when he caught a nipple and Jaskier squeaked into his mouth. He clutched desperately at the narrow hips between his legs and ground Jaskier’s length against the bulge in the front of his breeches, eliciting a mewl of combined longing and mild discomfort.

Pausing for breath only when he was certain he would pass out, Geralt pressed his lips to Jaskier's shoulder, still gripping him close, and rumbled his defeat. "You're a manipulative little shit."

"I don't like being ignored."

"Needy."

"Coming from the man who just fell into my bath with all his clothes on, and started rutting like an adolescent boy," Jaskier tugged at Geralt’s belt, the coarse material of his breeches rough against his sensitive head. “I have to admit. I wasn’t expecting quite such a strong reaction…” 

Geralt growled irritably. He had been feeling irrationally possessive since fighting the sirens. The image of Jaskier begging to be with another, even if it was magically induced, needed scrubbing from his soul. “Are you going to make use of this or not?”

“Well, I would… but... I would like to bathe you first. You smell of siren and the road. And while I do occasionally like the smell of rugged machismo, I would prefer to forget that little scene on the boat.” 

The bard tugged Geralt’s shirt over his head and left it to fall to the floor with a wet slap, and helped him with his belt and the ties of his trousers. When Geralt was finally naked, Jaskier twirled his hand and the Witcher obeyed, sitting between Jaskier’s legs with his back towards his chest. He could practically feel the heat and impatience humming from Geralt’s skin as he bathed him, and deliberately took his time.

It was almost sacred, _this act_ … this act of soaking away the sweat, blood and grime from their travels and leaving him fresh, clean and pure Geralt. Bathing his Witcher was a ritual that Jaskier enjoyed more than anything else in this world; more than music, more than poetry. It was a gesture of care and renewal that existed only between the two of them. Sometimes he would spend over an hour washing every inch, from his feet to his hair, gentle and attentive and then they would just collapse in bed and fall asleep. It was a small thing that Jaskier could do for Geralt that he _knew_ the Witcher wanted and appreciated, even if he grumbled and snarked initially. 

“Feel good?” A whispered question as Jaskier ran the linen cloth over Geralt’s shoulders and down his back. The heat of the water and the soap had removed most of the evidence of the last few days’ exertions, and Jaskier continued only because of the goosebumps and shivers he elicited.

“Mmhm.” Geralt sat up straight as Jaskier’s lips pressed between his shoulder blades, providing access to his chest and stomach; Jaskier was wary of that freshly stitched wound, even though it was truly minor in the grand scheme of things. 

The bard rinsed the cloth in the water and renewed his gentle attentions, grinning against damp skin as the Witcher spread his legs and encouraged Jaskier lower. _Wanton bastard_. The sigh of relief melted into a quiet moan of appreciation when Jaskier’s hands eventually abandoned the washcloth in favour of cupping Geralt’s balls, pressing his fingers lightly down his perineum and towards the tight knot of his entrance. He rubbed gently, his other hand gliding up Geralt’s cock to tease his thumb through the first droplets of precum that betrayed the intensity of his arousal. “Do you want me, Geralt?”

“Yes.” 

“Do you want me to take you? Over there, on the bed?” He couldn’t help himself. Geralt was a man of few words, but wringing desperate pleas from him was a sport that Jaskier never tired of.

“Jaskier, stop… I need--... _fuck_.” 

“Such boorish language, I’m not sure I w--.” And there was the line. Geralt stood up abruptly and turned to haul Jaskier up by the bicep. The bard grinned at him, and the Witcher growled, his pupils so wide that amber irises provided only a thin golden highlight around the edges.

“Get your damn oil. _Now_.” 

Geralt stepped out of the water and snatched a towel from the back of a chair to rub some of the moisture from his skin, while Jaskier sauntered his way over to his bag and extracted his favourite scented oil from a side pocket. When he turned back, his Witcher was sitting on the foot of the bed and watching him intently. Awaiting orders, Jaskier realised. He shuffled back obediently when Jaskier pushed a light palm against his chest and rested against the pillows behind his shoulders, craning needily for the kiss he was gifted. Jaskier’s oil-slicked digits slid down his thigh and pressed inside him after the briefest of caresses.

“Gods… relax, you’re going to break my fingers.” Only half in jest, Jaskier enjoyed this bit too. Laying pressed to Geralt’s side, propped up an elbow, and watching him pant as he adjusted. Jaskier smoothed his free palm over damp white hair and leaned over for another kiss as he inserted a third finger, savouring Geralt’s appreciative growl as his muscles flexed and accepted. The bard rested his forehead lightly against his Witcher's and gazed into molten eyes that he would happily burn in for an eternity, but teeth nipped at his lower lip in a wordless request for fulfillment. Jaskier grinned, and slipped easily between muscular thighs to acquiesce. 

Geralt rolled his eyes at Jaskier a lot. Usually in exasperation… mostly in exasperation, sometimes in shared irritation with an outsider. And then there was the uncontrolled way his head fell back and amber eyes flickered when Jaskier pushed inside him. It was a display of pure abandon, and it stoked the bard’s ego to no end. There was always the fear he wouldn’t be quite enough for his Witcher, but each time they were together like _this_ , that quiet flutter of anxiety faded a little more.

“You’re delicious.” He didn’t _need_ the encouragement of Geralt’s legs wrapping about his waist, the way his hips tipped greedily to take more, but it was a beautiful gesture of supplication that tied him in knots. Jaskier twined his fingers through those of Geralt’s left hand and pinned it above his head against the bed, allowing the other to grip desperately in the sheets underneath him.

“Shut up and fuck me, Jaskier.” His chest heaving with ragged pants, he looked up at the bard above him and the challenging quirk of his eyebrows and realised he had little power here. “Please.” Jaskier leaned over him, forcing him to cant his hips more and he was rewarded when the thick length inside him pushed over just the right spot.

Geralt wasn’t _usually_ vocal in bed - as in life - but when the bard took him he couldn’t help himself, no matter how much he bit back, the graceful roll of Jaskier’s body and the way he licked and teased with his teeth, whispered gentle words of worship into his ear… Geralt wasn’t being _fucked_ , he was being _made love_ _to_ , and that knowledge alone was enough to add a whole new level of sensation. 

He grasped the hand that leaned into his, the underside of his cock rubbing against the flat plains of Jaskier’s stomach with every deep thrust of his hips. It would have been enough. But, ever the attentive lover, Jaskier dropped a hand between them and pushed Geralt to an explosive orgasm that he was pretty certain Letho would have heard three rooms over. 

When they lay still later, their panting subsided and Jaskier’s completion soaking into the bed sheets below Geralt's rear, the Witcher gathered his bard to his chest. Jaskier hummed, "Give me five minutes and I want to explore that desk… over there…"

It had been a long few nights. Jaskier fell asleep listening to the strong, irrefutable thrum of Geralt’s heart. The Witcher just… smiled in the darkness until sleep took him too.

* * *

“Good time last night?”

Geralt said nothing, so Letho continued to prod for a reaction.

“Surprised you can walk," he shovelled another rasher of bacon into his mouth. "Saw him naked at Kaer Morhen standing on the balcony once, might as well be a third leg.” 

Geralt choked on the mead he was drinking, and glowered. “What makes you think--..." Realising he had been baited, he growled in dismissal, "fuck off, Letho.” 

The Viper laughed and returned to his food. They ate in silence and then departed to scout through the town. Jaskier was involved in the preparations for the ceremony, so their descent was a bit more rapid than their climb had been. Geralt spoke first as they headed back down the slopes, foregoing the path, “You said you thought there was something more going on.”

“Ever heard of Lady Melusine of the Depths?”

“Ekhidna. Big one. So different to the other sirens that the locals used to worship her as a Goddess. Didn’t she hibernate in the cliffs in southern Spikeroog?”

Letho grunted. “She sure did. Or rather, does. She hasn’t been seen for some time.”

“You think she has something to do with this new breed of siren the Skelligens are talking about?”

“I think she’s linked in, but I don’t think her participation is of her own volition. Something’s off about the Rhena’s death. She was struggling with the weight of the siren problem, sure… enough lost ships and crews, it’s going to have a broader impact… but what do you do when you have a monster problem?”

“You hire a Witcher.”

“Exactly,” Letho indicated a path leading towards the harbour. “So, why didn’t she? Hire a couple of Witchers, ship them over… just like the Regent has now. This has been going on for months and months. There must have been something stopping her.”

"Or someone," Geralt considered it. "Do you think one of her advisers was giving bad advice? If so, this is way above our pay grade… and beyond our vow of neutrality."

Letho scowled. "I have never known you to remain neutral on anything. If something darker is going on here, then it should not go unpunished." He paused. "She didn't die of old age, Geralt. She walked into the sea with stones in her arms… they found her body two days later."

They met up with Jacoby at the harbour. He greeted them with a broad smile and wave of the hand, and took them to the tavern for a tankard of ale to go through their responsibilities for the next couple of days. They would attend the wake, the coronation and then the druids had requested them both at the after party, before they were to set about clearing the siren nests.

Letho grumbled. "Wouldn't it be better if we just went and cleared the nests now? Then your shipping lanes can recover..."

Jacoby shook his head. "Nah mate, druids said it needs to be in this order. Sommat to do with omens, and balance."

As they had finished their drinks and walked back towards the Citadel, Letho looked to Geralt. "Believe me now?"

Geralt grunted. Something was fishy, and it wasn't just the reek of a working harbour.

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

They committed the Rhena back to the sea that evening. This time her body would not return to the shore as it had when she had taken her own life; archers fired flaming arrows into the darkness and when they landed they set her small barge alight. The mood was somber and Jaskier stood at Geralt’s side in respectful silence. She had looked at peace when the Jarls had carried her to the shore on their shoulders. They had dressed her beautifully in furs and the armour of a warrior, but surrounded her with her favourite flowers and rested a painting of her late husband atop the hilt of the sword on her chest. The islanders mourned in a way that Jaskier had never encountered in the Northern Kingdoms. The enclave of druids stood beside their non-magical brethren with their heads bowed; the first only turned to leave when the wood and body had been consumed by flame and sunk below the waves.

The ceremony continued in the citadel at Kaer Trolde. The tables overflowed with food and ale; Jaskier circled between them singing a compilation of his favourite adventures and old Skellige folklore that he had rapidly absorbed during his short time here. It pleased his audience, and he wasn’t the victim of a single jeer or hurled cabbage. _Success_ . Meanwhile, the two Witchers prowled the hall. It was definitely a _prowl_ not a _mingle_. Jaskier caught Geralt eyeing one of the Jarls quite closely, and at one point they disappeared from the dining hall…

“Clan Brokvar are the favourites,” Letho murmured, planting his hands on the thick stone walls of the outside balcony. “Problematic.”

“Why?” Geralt was unfamiliar with the ins and outs of Skelligen politics. Letho was a connoisseur of intrigue and had probably absorbed all of this information before he had even arrived. 

“They favour more aggressive action against Nilfgaard. Action that would cost many Skelligen lives. They also…” He trailed off as the door opened. A drunken member of Clan Tuirseach relieved himself over the edge of the balcony, his piss spattering the ancient mountain stones, cast the Witchers a suspicious look, and then staggered back inside again. “...they also favour a return to less… savoury ways. Some even say they worship Svalblod.”

“Wasn’t that cult cast out years ago? Blood sacrifices, ritualistic killings… too much even for a culture that prizes violence and combat.”

“Indeed. Either way, the Rhena wasn’t in favour. She prized peace and prosperity over any confrontation with Nilfgaard. She knew that all out war would only damage her kingdom.”

“Smart.”

“Very,” Letho agreed. “But she clearly angered the wrong people. And those people want this all tidied up with a nice neat bow. Not sure how they’ll convince the rest of Skellige to worship the forgotten ones though. Freya… the Gods of the Sea… they’re all so embedded in their culture. It would take something truly shocking to convince them to embrace the likes of Svolblod and Melusine.”

“Hmm,” Geralt crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned back against the wall. “Until recently, I thought the Northern Kingdoms were resistant to the sway of a cult… but…” He trailed off. Letho blinked at him, sensing there was something more, but he didn’t pry. Geralt continued, “How do you think the druids are involved?”

“Not sure yet. Maybe not even all of them. C’mon, we’re going to miss it.” They headed inside to watch the declarations of intent.

Five men had all thrown their weapons down on the fur to declare their intent for the crown, including the eldest son of Clan Brokvar as Letho had predicted. Five swords glinted in the firelight as the senior Jarl amongst them declared that voting would begin within the hour. It was time for the Witchers, Jaskier and a handful of other guests to leave; the vote involved only the members of the clans. Geralt steered Jaskier out of the hall despite the bard’s protests - “but Geralt, this will be the most interesting bit!” - and they headed down the slopes to the harbour. 

* * *

“Almost unanimous. Never known anything like it,” Letho knocked back another mouthful of vodka. The three of them sat on the harbour wall, dangling their legs out over the blackened ocean. “Apparently it was _his_ idea to call us in. When the two boats arrived unscathed, it was like a ‘sign’. A sign that the Gods of the Sea favoured his claim.” The Witcher raised his hands and made quotation marks with his fingers, clearly disparaging of such an interpretation. 

“Still doesn’t explain why the Rhena didn’t do it herself,” Geralt had foregone the hard liquor in favour of a bottle of beer with Jaskier, and the bard was somewhat grateful; carrying Geralt up a bloody mountain was not a task he wished to undertake at any point in the near future. “There’s something we’re missing…”

Letho grunted. “I imagine it will all start coming out once the crown’s on his head. Tomorrow at sunset. Under that bloody tree…”

“Maybe I can help.” Jaskier piped up, and the two looked at him simultaneously. “I’m more discreet. Less of a threat. People like telling me things… _boasting_ , really. I could ask a few questions at the coronation and see what that digs up.”

“He’s got a point…”

“ _Letho_ ,” Geralt growled, hackles up, protective. “Jaskier, I don’t think you should get involved in whatever _this_ is. I don’t--.”

“ _Geralt._ I think, by this point in time, I have rather proven my metal, hm? Trust me.”

Geralt couldn’t argue. The evidence of Jaskier’s ‘metal’, after the events of the last few years, was irrefutable. That didn’t mean he was happy about the prospect of dangling Jaskier before the jaws of an unknown beast and seeing if it took the bait; his nostrils flared, and he took a long drink before he gave in. “Be discrete, any… any pushback, you cut it off and you find me straight away.”

“I solemnly promise to not poke my nose too far into anyone’s business. Now, I think we should retire back to the _Fortress of Solitude_ in the clouds. I need to have my wits for tomorrow.” 

* * *

The Jarl of Skellige stood on a raised platform below Gedyneith’s gnarled branches. Jaskier had enjoyed the walk to western Ard Skellige despite having to carry his bags; the island’s scenery was truly breathtaking and it stirred a new song in his heart. Letho had taught him some of the structure of Skellige’s political system on the way; Skellige was an elective monarchy, and the monarch was only the first among equals. The Jarl of Skellige commanded the fleet, and the people were not lower than their clan overlords, but free men. The focus of any investigation should be the clan members however, as they were more likely to be privy to anything untoward.

Jaskier crowded around with the members of the clans, and stayed close to Geralt’s side as the Jarl raised his hands for silence. “Today, our mourning ends. _Today,_ by the grace of the Gods and the laws, we elect a new Konung. Let us swear fealty. Step forward, Aki. Claim your crown.”

The warrior of Clan Brokvar stepped forward and took the iron crown in one hand. He raised it to the heavens before lowering it down on his own head. “Here, beneath the Sacred Oak, I pledge to be a strong and just King.” He paused, dark eyes flickering across the faces of the Clan members before him. “For too long we have cowered in our drakkars, victims of Nilfgaardian raids, of our own oceans. But no more. As the sun rises tomorrow morning, it will rise to shine down on a new Skellige. A stronger Skellige. One that remembers its roots, and worships strength over weakness!” A druid stepped forward with a goblet containing a dark liquid and the new King took it from him and drank deeply, passing it back with an almost imperceptible shudder.

His promises were met with a roar and Jaskier felt a flutter of apprehension. There was no kindness or humanity in those eyes… only fanaticism and violence. _Time to get to work._ He turned to the nearest clan member. “Long live the King! Let’s drink to his reign!”

* * *

“Well?” Letho pulled Jaskier to his side as they headed away from the coronation festivities.

The bard cleared his throat. “The Rhena fell ill a few months ago. Just a… a cold. Nothing special, and she wasn’t really encumbered by it, but she was growing old, so it was felt that she needed to be fortified just in case. The druids were called in to treat her, but she just got worse,” he moved his lute behind his back, “they were giving her this medicine. It helped for a little while, but her illness began making her paranoid. She refused help from outsiders, refused to hear any council other than from the druids themselves. She began saying the sirens were a punishment… a punishment for Skellige’s weakness, _her_ weakness. And then, she took her own life. Sacrifice to the sea.”

“All points to the druids. Good job we have an invite to their little after party.” 

“I had a look in that goblet they gave to Aki…” Jaskier glanced at the white-haired Witcher walking silently at his side. “It matches the description one of the Jarls gave me. Right down to the smell. _Geralt…_ it was the exact same smell the sirens left behind when you cut them down. I don’t think they were giving the Rhena medicine at all. I think it… _poisoned_ her.” 

“ _Fuck.”_ Geralt snarled, and glanced over his shoulder. Aki was surrounded by the Jarls, but his dark eyes were watching after them. Unreadable. “We will drop you off in the harbour. Stay in the tavern tonight.”

“No. I’m coming with you.”

“ _Jaskier_ … this isn’t the type of party you’re used to. Humans aren’t meant to drink or smoke the type of shit these druids pass around.” 

Letho scoffed. “So, he doesn’t drink or smoke anything. The bard’s proven he has a nose for intelligence. He’s coming, Geralt. Better take him with us than have him sneak in.” Jaskier grinned proudly, but his private celebration was muted when he saw the expression on his Witcher’s face.

“Geralt, it’ll be fine. I won’t drink anything they give me, and you’ll be nearby. What could go wrong?”

“Hmm.” Geralt walked ahead, leaving Jaskier to converse stiltedly with Letho as they headed into the forests to find the druids’ enclave.

“Ahh, don’t worry about him. He’ll be high as a kite by the time the evening’s out.” Letho gave Jaskier a slap on the back of the shoulder that nearly sent him flying.

* * *

The druid enclave deep in the forests of Ard Skellige was something to behold. The celebration itself was being held inside a huge ring of stone pillars; the masonry was beautifully decorated with swirls and ancient symbols. Outside at its northern edge, the altar sat adorned with furs, candles and a sacrifice of food for the Gods. The druids had decorated the trees with garlands and candles, and at the very centre blazed a tall fire. Incense and herbs burned around the edges, and when they arrived the dancing and revelry was already well under way.

Geralt indicated a tree by which to store their bags, and he unbuckled his swords from his back to lean them against the trunk; Letho and Jaskier shed their weapons and lute respectively and they stepped into the press of people. Jaskier glanced around him in awe; some of the druids had remained in their ceremonial robes from earlier, while others had donned animal heads and furs, obscuring their faces in flickering shadows.

 _The music was truly something else_. It seemed to thrum from within Jaskier’s own chest; male voices deep and guttural, chanting words in a language Jaskier had never heard before, were accompanied by the beat of drums and the frantic timber of a well-tuned fiddle. This wasn’t the type of music that demanded graceful waltzes and stately decorum, but a primal grind that the druids appeared quite happy to obey… and Letho fell into it with admirable enthusiasm. 

Drinks were thrust towards them, but Jaskier politely declined each time. The third time Geralt waved away a bottle though, Letho pulled him roughly aside. “ _Drink_. He has an excuse, you don’t. Don’t make them suspicious. They know what you are… act the part.” The next time the White Wolf was offered a bottle, he took it and pulled the cork out with his teeth. Jaskier watched him give a tentative sniff before he put the neck to his lips and swallowed three mouthfuls. 

As the evening progressed, Jaskier was able to entertain himself by conversing with the druids milling around the edge of the campfire. Geralt found a comfortable spot to lay down, propping himself up on his elbows so that he could watch his bard wander the clearing; the distilled moonshine he was drinking had caused a fuzzy haze at the edges of his vision. Perhaps that was why the woman that straddled his lap caused him to start in surprise, head tilting back to look up into her kohl-lined hazel eyes. 

Jaskier watched the druid drop into Geralt’s lap with interest, allowing the conversation he was having to peter out as he watched the exchange. She leaned over Geralt’s chest and ran her tongue over his cheek before demanding a kiss by pressing her lips to his. The Witcher looked amused rather than interested, but when one hand slid down and gripped his crotch, his expression changed to one of chagrin. He leaned up to speak into her ear. Whatever he said earned him a vigorous backhand across the face; one of the rings adorning her fingers split his lip and he ran his tongue over the cut as she stormed away. 

The bard headed straight over and sat down at Geralt’s side. He stopped himself taking his chin to examine that cut and sat on his hands instead. “One of your less charming pick up lines?”

“Hmm. I told her if she wanted a whore, then she would have to pay like every other low life. Witchers aren’t free,” he leaned on his left elbow and took a long draw from his bottle. “Find out anything useful?”

Jaskier wanted to unpack _all of that_ comment, but felt perhaps it was a conversation left for another time. “Something, maybe... a couple have asked me when you’ll be heading out to deal with the sirens, and some of them have even expressed surprise you didn’t do it before the wake. Not quite what Jacoby said, was it?”

“Hmm. Interesting,” he paused, amber eyes somewhat unfocused as they looked up at Jaskier. “Be careful.” The bard smiled and patted his shoulder as he uncurled back to his feet. Another few hours passed, and Jaskier allowed himself to enjoy the rhythm of the music and was drawn into the primal dance that accompanied it. It was as he twirled around to face another partner that his vision suddenly clouded with smoke. Without thinking, he inhaled sharply and it burned through his nose and mouth, choking his lungs. He staggered, and fell to the floor. _Can’t breathe._

Hand to his throat, he hacked and spluttered, eyes watering. When he looked up from the floor, the world was suddenly _too sharp_ . His eyes focused on those decorative animal heads that seemed to melt and become one with their owners. Suddenly the big cat adorning one of the druids _roared_ at him, its teeth glinting and eyes afire, ready to pounce and rend him in half. The huge horned beast of the next snorted and snarled as its wearer dipped and weaved around the fire. 

The drums deafened him, the laughter pierced into his heart, the flames seemed to snatch at him and suddenly there wasn’t enough air in the world to allow Jaskier to breathe. He fell onto his backside in panic, and once he had skittered back barely half a metre, he lifted dirt covered hands to grip frantically in his own hair. He rocked and whimpered, shaking uncontrollably. _Too hot. Too loud. Too_ **_much._ **

Two strong hands scooped him under the arms and lifted him from the floor. The owner walked him backwards out of the clearing and into the darkness; he fought instinctively, slamming his fists into the man’s chest and kicking at his knees and shins. _You won’t take me. You won’t take me alive._

“Jaskier… _Jaskier_ . Stop. Breathe, _breathe._ ” Geralt wrapped one arm around Jaskier’s chest to hold him close and stop the assault, his other palm resting against his forehead and pushing his head back and eyes to the open sky. “It’s fine… it’s fine… just breathe.” 

“Geralt…” Jaskier croaked weakly, his eyes still streaming. “What…?”

“I told you. Humans aren’t meant to smoke that. _Easy.._.”

“What happened?” Letho tripped out of the clearing after them.

“Nothing. He’s fine…”

Letho laughed and slapped his knee. “Don’t worry, Jaskier. It knocks us all on our arse the first time.”

Geralt growled. “You are fucking _lucky_ he didn’t breathe in more, Letho…” He left the threat hanging there and the Viper raised his hands in mock surrender.

Jaskier tilted his head meekly against Geralt’s chest when the Witcher finally dropped his hand away, fists gripping in his shirt. “Fuck…”

* * *

The druid waited for the second Witcher to follow the first. There was no one to notice as she crouched by their bags and began removing the potions from within.

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

“How long do you think you’ll be?” Jaskier watched Letho and Geralt from his perch on the window sill. They had rented a single room for a day to recover from the druids’ celebration. The hangover had been monumental for all of them and, while Jaskier had found it amusing to hear Geralt groan into his pillow when the bard had opened the shutters, he was rather glad for everything to be back to normal. Witchers with sore heads were the _worst._

“No more than a day. With two of us, enhanced or not, it won’t take long to clear a couple of siren nests.” Letho pulled a handful of potions from his bag and slipped them into his jerkin; Geralt selected two of his own and notched three dancing star bombs onto his belt.

The bard pulled his lute across his lap and tapped his fingers along the fretboard. Letho headed out first, but Geralt hung back. When the Viper had started down the stairs, Geralt leaned over Jaskier and pressed a kiss to his lips; it was deep, and longing, and _beautiful_ and Jaskier felt empty when he turned to depart, so he let out a little parting jab. “Just make sure I don’t have to rescue you this time, alright?” He laughed at the middle finger he received as Geralt ducked into the hallway.

* * *

 _"The song of the White Wolf is loudest in the morn…_   
Hmm, no… dawn… dawn is better.   
_The song of the White Wolf is loudest in the dawn,  
The call of a stone heart is broken and alone,   
Born of Kaer Morhen, born of no love,   
The song of the White Wolf is cold as driven snow.  
Bear not your eyes upon him lest his silver sword… _  
No, no doesn’t sound right… ah-ha!  
_Bear not your eyes upon him lest steel or silver draw,  
Lay not your breast against him or lips to ease his roar." _

Jaskier scribbled in his notebook, annotating the next verse. _Always be sung alone_. 

_No… not anymore._ Never alone. The bard ran his fingers over his ballad and gazed out the window. His reverie was disturbed by a loud hammering on the door, and he leapt to his feet as a familiar red-headed man stumbled through, out of breath.

“Jacoby, what is the meaning of this?”

“I couldnae do it. He saved our lives. Without him, we woulda drowned like all the others… on the crossin’. It’s wrong, all wrong.”

“What in the seven hells are y--?”

“The Witchers. The druids have sent them to their deaths. They’ve… they’ve poisoned them somehow.”

Jaskier surged forward and before he knew it, he had both fists balled in the front of Jacoby’s shirt; he shoved the larger man up against the wall with a shaking fury. “Tell me. Now. Tell me everything or I swear to Freya I will _gut_ you.”

“I dunnae how… they swore me to silence, they ‘ave me wife. Please, forgive me. I can’... I just can’t let ‘em die. I’ve got all the men together. They’re rallyin’ now. There were some druids who weren’t in on it, they’ve given us these… they know the magic now. They know how to break the spell.” Jacoby held out a medallion towards Jaskier, booted feet kicking against the floor against Jaskier’s grip. 

The bard dropped him and snatched the medallion. _When? How had they managed to poison Geralt and Le--?_ Jaskier's eyes flickered across to their bags, and when he pulled out the first vial, he tilted it up into the light. The difference was... minute. Barely detectable. Certainly not visible to a Witcher busy preparing for his next fight. “I just had to jinx it, didn’t I?”

“What?” Jacoby panted, rubbing at his chest.

“Nothing,” Jaskier ducked into the pendant and tucked it into his tunic, walking to one of his own bags to extract two bottles of White Honey. He waved Jacoby towards the door, shoving him in the shoulder when he didn’t move fast enough. “Move. Now.”

As the bard stepped out into the dim afternoon light, he was greeted with a retinue of armed Skelligen warriors; two dozen at least. At their front, the new King of Skellige, who inclined his head and turned the brown and grey steed towards the hills. “I have been informed of this… conspiracy. The culprits have been arrested. We do not condone the deaths of the innocent.” With a flick of his hand, he indicated a saddled horse to his right and Jaskier pulled himself into it.

“If he is dead, King Aki, I will ensure the whole Continent knows why.”

The former Jarl appeared to consider this, his black eyes studying the mane of his horse, before kicking it in the flanks and spurring it into a gallop.

* * *

The ride to the southernmost point of the island felt longer than the ride from Cintra to Kaer Morhen, but Jaskier had become adept at combating his hysterics. It wasn’t quite the iron control of Witcher mutation, but if he allowed himself to panic, Geralt’s likelihood of survival diminished considerably. 

They dismounted and left the horses at the edge of the forest they had traversed, descending down the rocky outcrop that led to the shoreline and the deep caves that housed the sirens. It was at the entrance that they found the Witchers.

Letho was laying on his side, perfectly still, his silver sword several metres away and his eyes closed. Jaskier could see no injuries, but there was a splash of bile pooled by his open mouth and the dark veins under his skin had not dissipated. 

Geralt was still on his feet… mostly. He had dropped to one knee and was sending bursts of igni across the space between him and three sirens that circled for the kill; his sword was impaled in one of the eight scattered around him, but too far for him to reach without leaving the fallen Witcher behind. He was unwilling to abandon his brother to the sirens, despite his own injuries and diminishing prospects of survival. As Jaskier drew nearer, he could see the black veins under his pale skin and the blood flowing freely down the left side of his face, matting in his white hair. 

The Skelligens charged past him with a feral battle cry. Led by their King, they crashed through the waves and the sand and engaged the sirens with an admirable valour considering the sheer horror of the creatures. Jaskier dropped to his knees next to Geralt who looked at him with shock and… _relief._

The Witcher turned away and shoved shaking gloved fingers down his own throat, agitating his gag reflex enough for his stomach to turn out its contents. He vomited green, black and _blood_ into the sand. Jaskier’s heart almost stopped as Geralt hacked and shook, and he moved closer in hopes of steadying his Witcher enough to get him help...

Jaskier didn’t have a chance to intervene though because, barely stable, Geralt threw himself over to Letho, gripped the Witcher’s jerkin and hauled him onto his back. He dropped his ear close to Letho’s mouth and when he didn’t hear a breath, he tore his armour away from his chest. “Oh, no, no, you’re not done yet.” Geralt’s voice was hoarse and broken, he gripped Letho’s nose and pressed their mouths together. Fists gathered together over Letho’s chest, he pressed down with force three times before he returned to breathe into Letho’s mouth again.

“He’s…”

“Come on, you mother _fucker_.”

He repeated the same process, over and over. His face still streaming from the wound that cut down through his left eye and across his cheek, veins still blackened with toxicity, and his breathing increasingly pained.

“Geralt, stop… he’s gone… I…”

Jaskier reached a hand towards Geralt’s shoulder…

Letho began to hack and cough. He rolled onto his side and wheezed, face covered in his own bile and Geralt’s blood, he looked from Wolf to Bard, dazed. A shaky smile. “ _Fuck…_ did I just get tongue from… the White Wolf?”

Geralt laughed. It was a desperate breathy sound, edged in pain, that spoke of the tenuous grip he had on consciousness. He helped Letho sit up against him, one arm wrapped around his back. “Don’t tell anyone… I have… standards… reputation.”

Jaskier pulled the two bottles of White Honey from his pockets, uncorked them and pushed them both into Geralt’s hands. Wordlessly, the Witcher helped Letho drink first, before knocking back the second himself. It seemed to provide relief, and those dark veins began to fade and recede. They both stopped shaking.

“They switched our potions… fuckers… it didn’t smell, or taste any different,” Letho turned to stare at the Skelligen warriors as they cut down the third and final siren. They had lost seven of their number, and another two were grievously wounded. “I’m gunna… skin me a druid.” 

Geralt accepted Jaskier’s help to get to his feet, and managed to haul Letho upright with some effort. They staggered towards the horses, and Geralt hissed as his unsteady gait disturbed broken ribs. “Just get me off this fucking island.”

* * *

“So, the plan was for us to die and then the renegade druids would claim the only way to free Skellige from the grip of the sirens was to return to… worshipping old Gods,” Geralt summarised Jaskier’s explanation. This was the longest period he had managed to stay awake; the poisoned decoctions appeared to have affected his metabolism, and he still felt inexplicably weak.

“Yes. Sirens strong enough to fell two Witchers? Truly a force to be reckoned with. I would imagine the new King of Skellige would have fallen under their sway pretty quickly. They've been distilling the blood of some mega siren. Used it to drive the Rhena insane, probably would have done the same to Aki..."

Jaskier abandoned the desk chair to sit on the side of the bed. He lifted his hand to touch the left side of Geralt’s face for the hundredth time in the last three days, running a gentle thumb down the raw skin beside the wound. It had been a relief on the second day when Geralt’s left eye had opened, and the same vibrant amber gazed out as in his right one… no damage to his sight, no milky blindness. The jagged wound itself was going to scar; a permanent and visible reminder of how the world seemed hellbent on snatching Jaskier’s Witcher from him.

Geralt leaned into that caress. “I’m sure his reputation has soared. Saving two Witchers from some monsters... I’ll never get work again.”

Jaskier smiled gently. “While I don’t feel that would be the end of the world, to be honest. I have ensured what has happened here will never see the light of day. Your reputation, noble Witcher, will remain untarnished.”

“How…?”

“King’s own minions try to murder two Witchers for political gain, and in the hopes of worshipping ancient and banned Gods. Looks bad, Geralt. The Eternal Fire would have a field day. Every Skelligen citizen would be branded a heathen, for real… bad for trade, bad for alliances. Besides, still not sure how much he was directly involved. I've never met a man with such _dead_ eyes.”

“When did you become Letho’s acolyte?”

Jaskier laughed and stood, stroking his hand over the top of Geralt’s head. “You’ve been asleep a lot. I get bored. He headed out about a day ago. I couldn’t convince him to rest any longer.”

“He thinks if he stays in the same place for too long, his enemies will all catch up with him at once,” Geralt huffed a laugh and instantly regretted it; one arm draped across his ribs and he shuffled lower against the pillows behind him. “How much is this place costing us?”

“Free of charge,” the bard hopped to his feet and grabbed his lute. “At the King’s pleasure. I think we should order as much wine as we possibly can and get absolutely plastered. Thoughts?”

“Like it.”

“Excellent,” Jaskier cocked a leg out the window and straddled the window sill, enjoying the feel of the sea breeze as it ruffled through his hair. “But first, I have finally finished a ballad I’ve been working on since I met you… want to hear it?”

“Hmm. My diary appears to be quite empty… might have time.”

“Oh shut up and listen. To the end. And just remember, I know the real truth about you, Geralt of Rivia. This is for… everyone else.”

And so Jaskier sang Geralt the Song of the White Wolf.

* * *


End file.
